


(Sherlock X Reader) Good Morning

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Fighting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Cute Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, F/M, Feel-good, First Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Kissing, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Hugs, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Kissing, Making Out, Making out at work, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Minor Original Character(s), Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Mystery, Naked Cuddling, Neck Kissing, Post-Coital Cuddling, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sleepy Cuddles, Solving crimes, Sweet Sherlock, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25191223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: It's Y/N and Sherlock's first day as a couple, and Sherlock realises that balancing a love-life and crime-solving career is actually a lot easier (and more fun) than he anticipated.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows on from my other story 'More Than Anything In The World' but it makes sense without you having read that. Basically, this is the morning after Y/N and Sherlock's first night together/deceleration of love.

Sherlock woke the next morning because something had moved against him.

That something had been Y/N. She was tucked against Sherlock's front and had shifted in her sleep. They had no clothes on and her bare backside was flush against his hips, and even though Sherlock felt unimaginably spent, he still felt a ripple of desire course through him. Lips twitching into a sloppy smile, he nestled himself a little closer, burying his nose into the back of Y/N's neck. Because it felt good. And he couldn't believe that he can just...do that now, cuddle up to a woman, to _Y_ / _N_. All that time he'd wanted to, longed for it, and now he just...can. He might have been convinced it was just one of those dreams he sometimes has, if it didn't feel so beautifully real.

Sherlock had woken up in the same bed as Y/N before, but it was different this time, it _felt_ different. The first time he'd been wary; touching his friend as if she were eggshells he was trying hard not to break. He couldn't enjoy it too much, he couldn't do anything that would _make_ him enjoy it too much. But he can now, Sherlock thought with a smirk. That morning he'd been in bed with his friend. Now he was in bed with his _girlfriend._ His _lover_. His _partner_.

Those sappy romantic words made his heart flutter with burning elation, so much so that he felt giddy, and had to grin to release some of his overflowing joy. He has a _girlfriend_. 

He was still beaming when Y/N said sleepily:

"You seem happy this morning." By the sound of it, her own lips were curved into a smile. She stretched her arms out in front of her, like a cat waking from a long nap, and turned over to face the man who had been curled around her back.

His eyes were pushed into crescent moons by his cheeks, which were creased from his smile as he kissed her forehead. "Good morning. How could you tell?"

Y/N dipped her head to tuck it under Sherlock's chin, pulling herself up against the solid, warm strength of his body with the hand she'd placed on his side. Once they were sufficiently pressed together she didn't let go, and instead slid her palm up and down slowly, pressing a massage onto Sherlock's delicate skin. He loved it, obviously, and sighed, his breath swirling on the top of Y/N's head. Something in him, some instinct, was triggered by her closeness, the vulnerable way she clung to his body and he held her to him, encompassing her in the reassuring cage of his arms.

"I could just...tell. Feel it. There's something different about you." Y/N's voice came small and muffled from her sanctuary, pressed against Sherlock's chest.

"Something good?"

Whilst pressing a kiss to his collarbone, keeping her face so close to him her words swirled against him, hot and humid. "Something very good." She pushed herself up, now, so she was leaning over him, having taken his shoulder to push him down onto his back. Sherlock let her, eagerly, and she smiled, feeling the little skip of his heart, noting his sharp inhale of breath.

That would have made Sherlock blush before, showing Y/N---or any woman---what an effect she had on him, but now he wanted her to know she made his knees so weak he wouldn't be able to stand if he tried. He _wanted_ her to pick up on the places he especially liked to be touched, to note how much pleasure he gets from being pampered. Sherlock wants her to know these things because he's desperate for her to exploit the hell out of them.

"You're all...happy. I love seeing you happy."

The feeling of Y/N's naked body against his, her close proximity, her love, were the reactants but her kisses were the catalyst. That earlier tightening in his midsection, that hunger he'd felt at her shifting against his bare hips was back, hot quivers of sensation spiralling up his legs, but this time it was lasting for longer. Every new kiss Y/N gave him sent bolts through him, just as they had last night, and his nerve cells prickled with the realisation that they can do that again. It will be better this time because Y/N knows every inch of him. She can play his body like an instrument.

She's doing that now, Sherlock realised with a smirk as he noticed the way she seemed to be planning the trail of kisses up his neck. There's a spot, a certain tender area just below his ear that can make his back arch in pleasure... And Y/N is purposely avoiding it. She knew it was there, she _knew_ it, and was teasingly swerving it on purpose, holding out on him just to watch him squirm.

"I'll be even happier if you kiss me in that place I like." Sherlock hadn't meant to sound flirtatious, but that is how his husky murmur had come out, and it nearly made him blush. Nearly. He would have blushed if he hadn't liked how he sounded as much as he did. He'd never tried to be coy before, and now that he was---now that he could see what an obvious effect it had on Y/N---he regretted not giving it a go sooner. His voice was perfect for it, the deep baritone vibrating through Y/N and straight to her core. Smugly, he felt her react to it, noticed her body do the same things his had done when she'd shifted against his pelvis. He liked it. The fact that he could make her cheeks redden, her pupils swell, the fact that he could finally ask her to kiss him at all.

Propping herself up over him with one arm, Y/N pretended to look confused. "And where would that place be, exactly?" She stroked Sherlock's fringe from his forehead, smiling down at him and he faked frowning moodily up at her.

"You bloody well know where." He was _mostly_ faking. He did want her to kiss him again _really_ badly.

Y/N chuckled, her laughter the best thing Sherlock had ever heard, and he let his eyes slip closed as she bent back down to the place she'd been caressing. "Here?" she's still teasing him, and he's _aching_.

"Up a bit. You know it's up a bit."

In answer, the pads of Y/N's lips started moving in the right direction but swerved to the left of that place he wanted them to touch, missing it by a few centimetres. "This bit?"

Sherlock could feel her smirk, the evil joy she gets from toying with him radiating off her. His fingers are pressing comfortably against her waist and he contemplates using their position to suddenly flip them over. He'll get her back for tormenting him, he _will_. _'This is my new favourite thing',_ one of the few non-lust-filled parts of Sherlock's love-riddled brain decided. _'Messing around in bed with my girlfriend.'_

Y/N was still dodging that one spot, torturously close. She'd lowered herself down onto him, her breasts pressed into his chest and Sherlock whimpered. "Ah, I think I know where you mean now." She moved her head over a bit, just right now, hovering---

Then the doorbell rang.

...

Y/N pulled away and Sherlock opened his eyes again, curiously. "Why have you stopped?"

"Was that our doorbell or Mrs Hudson's?"

Sherlock knew but by no means did he care. If Y/N hadn't have pointed it out he probably wouldn't have registered the irritating little sound at all. "It doesn't matter. Kiss me again. Please."

Grinning at his desperacy, one of her hands was cupping his jawline, her forehead inches from his, and she rubbed her thumb over his cheek. He looked very nice with his curls all messed up over the pillow. Pecking the space between his eyebrows: "I think it was for us. Shouldn't we get it?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock took the back of Y/N's and tugged her back down, kissing her lips slowly until she moaned, the sound making him roll back his eyes. But it was _his_ turn to tease _her_ now, he wanted to get back at her for tormenting him so. He broke the kiss, moving his lips to the corner of her mouth instead, smirking at her little noise of irritation. He'd forgotten the doorbell already. All Sherlock was currently aware of was the pleasing weight of Y/N's body over his, and her fingers that were now running through his hair as she tried to chase his lips.

Downstairs, the door opened and the low buzz of voices drifted up through the floor. Someone with a gruff London accent was talking to a woman.

Y/N muttered against Sherlock's cheek as he made a trail of caresses over her nose. "Sherlock, it's Lestrade. We should see what he wants."

Sherlock's skin tingled at her breathily gasping his name. Suddenly he wished they had their own house so there was no landlord living below them to let in random police officers. The mental image of owning a house with Y/N sent a little thrill through him and he took her hips and pushed her quickly back onto the bed. She squealed with laughter as he straddled her waist, beaming. The sun was seeping through the curtains, casting the woman below him into brilliant light and he almost chuckled at how it seemed to make her glow. Like gold at the end of a rainbow, or treasure at the end of a quest. Sherlock let his gaze rover over her, her sparkling eyes, her smile. He bent down to kiss over her forehead and down, over her cheek lovingly, tantalisingly slowly, the corners of his lips drawn back in a grin. "Lets not." _Let's stay here forever._

Y/N couldn't help her legs moving up to wrap around Sherlock's narrow waist and he thought, triumphantly, that he'd won as she said: "I want to stay here and cuddle with you all morning too---"

"Then we shall."

Y/N giggled at his neediness. "--- _But_ what if Lestrade is here for something important, though? Like last week---" she gasped as Sherlock nipped her ear between his teeth. "When those kids were missing?"

Sherlock stopped what he'd been doing at her neck, the mood very much ruined, but he didn't mind so much now. She had a point. Lestrade rarely comes over for cases that weren't really important. Someone might need help, and it was his _job_ to do that. He sighed moodily. "Fine. We'll go see what he wants. But if it's stupid can we come straight back up here?" He'd let Y/N go, moving off her and helping her up from the bed. Well, more like directing her off the bed and into his arms again so he could press another kiss to her lips. 

_'Wow, kissing is addictive,'_ he thought. _' Or maybe Y/N is addictive. Can you get addicted to a person? Because I think I am.'_

Not that that seems to be a bad thing. All those times he'd stood in this exact spot feeling lonely, bored, his footprints being the only ones pressed into the carpet, and now suddenly here he was with Y/N. Naked. Kissing after the best night of his life. 

She stroked a hand over his head. "Perfect. Or we could..." She nestled closer to him, the room brisk against their still-bare skin. "...cuddle up on the sofa and watch some Netflix..."

Sherlock looked down at her, confused. "But we do that most days---" then be blushed at the glint in her eyes, the penny metaphorically dropping. "O-oh. Yes, please."

Y/N's face broke out in a smile. "Did you just stutter?"

Doing a poor job at being convincing, especially because his cheekbones were candyfloss-coloured at the feeling of Y/N standing so close with no clothes on: "No, of course not. I don't stutter."

"You absolutely did." She'd moved away from Sherlock, now, much to his disappointment, and they reluctantly started donning the pyjamas they'd had on last night; when Y/N had walked into his bedroom, back when they were just friends. "I'm going to nip upstairs to get dressed before we let Lestrade in. See you in the living room. There will be plenty of time for playing around in bed another day." She leant up to kiss his cheek before she left, leaving Sherlock with a swell of happiness in his chest.

He quickly stopped her, taking her wrist gently and pulling her to face him. "So there will be another day? They'll be more of this? We are...you know...together, now? Definitely?" That had come out a lot more hopeful than he'd meant it to.

Y/N didn't seem to mind. She seemed to find it the most adorable thing she'd ever seen. "Yes. I'd like there to be very much. _So_ much." She was blushing now. "You know...If you do."

To say Sherlock was elated was an understatement. "More than anything in the world," his voice was muffled because he'd scooped Y/N up in a hug, burying his nose into the crook of her neck.

...

With that settled, Y/N then brought Sherlock's attention to the matter of telling people they were dating; more precisely, when and whether he wanted to. She told him that they'd do everything at his own pace, which he was grateful for, but he felt it was also rather unnecessary. He didn't mind people knowing he was dating Y/N. In fact, he wanted them to know. He was proud of it. He wanted to stand on a very high building and yell about it for all the world to hear.

He told Y/N that, which got him more kisses. 

Lestrade was clearly getting impatient with waiting for them to answer because he'd climbed the stairs up to 221B some time ago and was now banging on their door and shouting something about not having all day.

When Sherlock broke the kiss to breathe, Y/N said: "Okay, so do you want to tell Lestrade today? Because I'm ready too. You know...usually people wait a little while before telling people they're dating. So they know they're happy before they make it public. But I think, for me personally, I knew I'd be happy dating you before I even was."

Sherlock bit his lip to hold in his grin because he'd been smiling so much recently that his cheeks were beginning to hurt. "Really?"

Y/N nodded, sort of avoiding his eyes as if she thought she'd said something wrong, was being too forward, or something. Her muscles slackened when Sherlock murmured back: 

"I knew I'd be happy with you too. I think..." he held Y/N close again, stooping so her chin could come to rest on his shoulder. "I'm the happiest I've ever been when I'm with you." He noted, with a smile, how he didn't even think twice before being openly emotional with Y/N now. It was a very freeing feeling. 

They couldn't see each other's faces but Sherlock knew he'd made Y/N giggle because he could feel her shaking a little against him. "Are you really? Or are you just saying that because I made you groan so loud last night you won't be able to look our neighbours in the eyes ever again?"

He went crimson at that realisation and pressed his face into the side of Y/N's neck like he was trying to hide from the world he'd embarrassed himself in. "Oh God, you don't think they heard, did you?"

"I think they probably did." She rubbed his back in a way she hoped was comforting and he made a small distraught sound, then surfaced, pushing their foreheads together again. 

Being serious now: "Really, though, I mean it. You said earlier that I seem different. Happier. So happy you could tell without even looking at me. That's because I am."

There was another indignant knock at the door and Sherlock sighed, releasing Y/N so he could shout to the man knocking: "Give me a minute! I'm not dressed!" Turning back to Y/N, in that intimate tone he uses only for her: "Do you want me to take him to the kitchen? You can sneak to your room so he doesn't see you in pyjamas." 

Y/N thought about it, then a twinkle came to her eyes. "What if I sneak to my room and get dressed, and pretend like I was there all night." She noted Sherlock's confused---and bordering on hurt---expression and hurriedly continued: "I want to tell people we are together, I do, but it just occurred to me that it might be fun to...date in private for a few days. Just me and you. It could be exciting; sneaking kisses whilst on cases, finding ways to hold hands without anyone seeing. I just thought that...well, you know, people are going to ask a lot of questions and everything. We don't have to, it might be nice to just have a few days where it's just...us."

Sherlock turned the idea over in his head. He liked the sound of it being 'just us'. And Y/N did have a point. He could hear it now, everyone at Scotland yard expressing their surprise that he's 'interested in that sort of thing', Mycroft's disapproving frown when he realises his little brother has done something as utterly stupid as falling in love. And sneaking kisses whilst on cases did sound like tremendous fun. It would definitely make them a lot more interesting. It sounded kind of like a game. "A few days of 'just us'? Yes, please."

...

Sherlock was dressed but still rubbing his hair dry with a towel when he let Lestrade into the flat. Greg took one look at his ruffled curls and gave him that look a father gives you when you---well, when you're in this exact situation. 

"It's the middle of the day and you're not even dressed!"

Bluntly: "Nice to see you too, Geoffry."

"Greg."

"That's what I said." Sherlock started guiding Lestrade to the kitchen so Y/N could sneak out of his room and up to her own to get changed. Despite it being very low-stakes, he still felt little butterflies of adrenaline flutter their wings in his chest at the thought that he was hiding the fact that a _woman_ was sneaking out of _his_ _room_. Not that it was a difficult thing to hide, Lestrade seemed utterly focused on precisely two things: Sherlock's late start to the day, and---

"Could I have a cuppa? I'm parched, I stood for bloody ages outside your door waiting for you to roll your arse out of bed."

Pouring water into the kettle: "Harsh."

"---I mean, honestly, Sherlock. You can't spend the whole day just laying in bed because you can't think of anything better to do." He took the mug Sherlock handed him and dropped a teabag into it, muttering under his breath: "Although God knows _I_ would if I could. But you're _young_ , you should be---"

Sherlock was pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes by now, planning to patiently let Lestrade wear himself out. His plan fell to pieces however, as he said: "Actually, I wasn't just _laying_ in bed." He mushed his cornflakes down into their milk with the back of his spoon irritably, the crunching noise surprisingly effective at relieving some of his frustration. He was frustrated that he'd only woken up half an hour ago and was already being lectured about how to live his life. He was frustrated about having to even get out of bed in the first place, let alone give up sex for breakfast with the detective inspector. And he was also frustrated that he couldn't shove why he'd slept so late in the inspector's disapproving face.

He took a cleansing breath. It would be worth it. Having Y/N to himself for a few days was worth it.

And, actually, now that he was sitting across from Lestrade, he found himself realising that telling Greg that he was in a relationship would actually be...rather difficult. It wasn't embarrassing, as such, he just..didn't like the idea of his basically-surrogate-father knowing he'd...seemed to have changed so much? Been so wrong about relationships? Melted into a puddle just because a woman had kissed his thigh?

That was a pleasing mental image. His lips twitched as he remembered last night, how it felt when---

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He woke from his stupor, Greg watching him critically like he knew something had changed about him but he wasn't quite sure what. Like a shirt that had shrunk in the wash. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly getting the feeling that if the man across from him stared at his head long enough he'd be able to read what had been going on inside it.

"...I _said_ , well what _were_ you doing, if you weren't sleeping? And don't say 'thinking', because that doesn't count and you know it."

"I was---"

Luckily, the gods move in mysterious ways to do wonderful things for Sherlock Holmes because at that very second Y/N approached the table in her day clothes, a book under one arm which she put on the table. "Hi, Lestrade, I didn't know you were here, sorry, I was reading." She took her usual seat by the fridge after getting a box of cereal from the cupboard.

Sherlock tried not to look at her as she stretched up to do so, because he knew he'd blush like Hell, which would blow their cover stupidly early. _'Will this just be my life, now?'_ He mentally asked himself. _'Will every single little thing Y/N does send shivers coursing up my spine?'_

She gave him a welcoming smile, pretending to not have seen him since yesterday. "Good morning. Hey, could you pass me the milk, Sherlock?"

At hearing her say his name, said man realised that, yes, this was his life now. He should probably get used to blushing and stuttering because that's what he's going to be doing a lot of, even more than before. He thought that he'd embarrassed himself a lot when he'd just had a _crush_ on Y/N. Now there were memories, mental images to go with it, and a yearning to make more of those kinds of memories.

And he didn't mind at all. 

...

"Hi, Y/N, at least _you're_ dressed and getting on with the day." Greg gave her a warm smile which she returned through lips thin from holding in laughter at the look on Sherlock's face; he was glaring at the detective inspector, clearly affronted.

"You sound like my mother."

Greg had brought with him a thick bundle of papers and was now flicking through them with well-practised ease to find a specific page. "I've met your mother, a wonderful woman, that's a compliment."

Sherlock had opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade was already continuing:

"Anyway, the reason I came over is that I have something that might be of interest to you. Especially you, Sherlock."

Y/N and Sherlock exchanged a look. Y/N's look had meant:

' _Unless I was very wrong about your sexuality, and you're an incredibly good actor, nothing Lestrade could give you is of interest right now, is it?'_

And Sherlock's look had meant: ' _There's only one thing of interest to me at this second and I can guarantee it's not in that pile of papers'._

Lestrade, luckily, seemed completely blind to this silent conversation because he was still hunting through his wedge of documents and eventually found the one he was looking for. Y/N moved up to the vacant chair at Sherlock's right, to get a closer look as Greg slid the paper over to their side of the table. Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that Y/N was so close he could smell her shampoo, and instead attempted to focus on the image before him.

It was an extremely close up photograph of someone wearing a necklace blown up to fill the entire sheet of A4. The necklace was clearly expensive, every centimetre of it encrusted with---what would be, if it wasn't printed with cheap photocopier ink---shining diamonds. The piece was a choker, fitting snugly around the neck of a woman with defined collarbones and dusky skin which contrasted with the little tendrils of yet more jewels that branched off from the front of the necklace like rays from a sun. The design was intricate and would be rather beautiful had someone's thumb not obviously smudged the photo, and the piece itself actually been in focus.

"This woman's necklace was stolen from The White Hotel," Lestrade explained, sliding another sheet over the top of that one. This picture, too, was of jewellery---a simple pearl earring worn by a woman with dark, choppy hair. It was also cropped from a photograph, the woman's ear enlarged to a point of slight pixelation. "This lady's earrings were taken as well. Different guests, different rooms." He looked up at Sherlock, smiling slightly. Clearly this was the part that was supposed to be 'of interest': "Same floor, though."

Sherlock lazily arched an eyebrow.

Lestrade's joy faltered and he cleared his throat, hurrying on like a performer afraid of losing his audience. He placed another picture down. Then another. And another. "All of these were taken from guest's rooms at The White Hotel on Tuesday night. We've got a watch, some diamond cufflinks, a bracelet---as you can see---plus thousands in cash and more jewellery---but these are the only ones we have pictures of. It was all taken from the fourth floor," he concluded with relish, leaning back in his chair like someone that had just told a particularly good ghost story and was ready to revel in the reactions of his peers.

His peers didn't react, though, maybe because they hadn't realised they should. Y/N was absently examining a burn mark in the table, and Sherlock continued eating his breakfast. He had a habit of drinking all the milk first, then consuming the cereal (which had gone soft by that point). He was still at the milk-drinking stage and gave up trying to spoon it, bringing the bowl to his lips as if it was soup instead.

Lestrade cleared his throat and Sherlock rolled his eyes so far back into his head he probably got a very good look at his occipital bone.

"Alright, Mum, don't give me a lecture on table manners, this is my flat so if I want to---"

"I don't care about how you eat cereal, Sherlock! I care about the case! Over twenty thousand pounds of goods stolen from a hotel, _and it's all from the same floor."_

"You're saying that like it _means_ something," Sherlock said around his tongue that was attempting to lick away his milk moustache.

"It does mean something!" Lestrade exclaimed. He looked like a maths teacher exasperatedly trying to educate a group of seven-year-olds on fractions. He took a sip of his tea and changed tactics, swapping his tone to a more patient one: "Only one floor was hit, the one at the top of the building. We have no clues or leads."

When Y/N and Sherlock still looked baffled he pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.

People seem to do that a lot around Sherlock, Sherlock realised. It kind of looked like Greg was trying to recharge himself; the cradle his finger and thumb made and the way the bridge of his nose slotted into it reminded the detective of one of those hand-held hoovers you mount on a wall. He had to try hard not to giggle. "And you're telling me because...?"

Sighing the sigh of a man who was very, very tired: "I'm telling you because don't you think it's interesting? Why steal from just one floor? We checked the security tapes and there was nothing there. No one went in or out of the windows, obviously, because---well, as I said---the rooms were on the fourth level of the building. Someone would have noticed, and there's no ladder long enough to get up there. The windows were locked, there's no evidence of a break-in at all."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if Lestrade's point was a picture in a gallery that he knew was a _painting_ but he didn't quite know what _of_. "...Okay?"

Greg was clearly irked now. "God, Sherlock, are you _trying_ to wind me up, or are you still half asleep?"

"That was uncalled for," Y/N interjected quietly from the sidelines.

Flushing: "Yes. Yes, it was. Sorry. You just don't seem very switched on today."

"I _did_ just wake up, what do you expect?"

"You said you hadn't been sleeping."

"I lied."

Lestrade filled his lungs with oxygen, decided that trying to be whimsical was getting him nowhere and dropped the act. "Look, just tell me what you think about the case, Sherlock, please. That's what I came over here for."

A light switched on behind the detective's eyes as the metaphorical gallery painting suddenly made sense to him. "Oh, I _see_! You want me to _solve_ it for you!" He gave a little chuckle, the fact of whether it had been at himself for taking so long to figure out Greg's intentions, or that Greg needed his help, was debatable. "You should have said." Shoving the last of his breakfast in his mouth, Sherlock distractedly left his bowl in the sink and started tugging Y/N---who had got up to get something to drink---towards his room. "Obviously it was one of the staff."

"Hey, wait, you're leaving me here?"

Sherlock halted abruptly, his hand letting go of Y/N's and falling limply by his side. He turned back to the detective inspector who was watching them with his brows so furrowed they were now just one stubby monobrow of confusion. "...Yes? I thought we were done." 

_'Thought and hoped,'_ a little voice in his head muttered. 

"Well, you thought wrong. We _also_ assumed it was one of the staff that did it; we're not stupid, despite what you may think. However, everyone that works at the hotel has alibis, and there was no evidence against any of them so even if it _was_ one of them we couldn't prove it. Which is why we wanted your help. Well, actually no one _wanted_ your help but I thought I'd come get you anyway because usually you're bored out of your mind and jump at stuff like this. I thought you'd be all over it; a classic jewellery robbery, only the rooms on the top floor, no traces left behind---"

Sherlock: "But there _are_ traces, you're just blind---"

"Well, maybe we are because we can't find them. So I'm standing there, surrounded by scared guests, worried staff, and a very angry hotel manager and I wonder: who do I know that _would_ be able to find traces? Who do I know that would not only be happy to take this case off my back, but also be able to solve it in two minutes flat? You. So I come over here, under the impression it'll be right up your street, only to find that you seem... _disinterested_." If Lestrade was better at his job he would have noticed Sherlock's adam's apple bob, a tender---best left ignored---nerve having been touched.

That nerve was that Sherlock had realised this too---how his interest in cases seems to have...evaporated? Or has it been fizzling out over the past few months and he'd just not noticed? Not wanted to notice. It seems to have disappeared, but there's no gaping hole in his life where it used to be. His interest in cases has been replaced by an interest in Y/N. It was obvious to him now, but he'd put off thinking about it because...well because it scared him.

To add insult to injury, Greg carried on: "You aren't acting as if you care at all. I mean, I know dull cases don't catch your attention, but this one _isn't_ dull. And you're acting odd. Well, odder than usual." He smiled to show he meant it in a friendly way, but it was obvious the matter was not casual to him. He was still holding Sherlock under a scrutinous stare, the cogs in his brain chugging away as he tried to figure out what had changed.

Sherlock would have made a friendly joke in return about how that's the most work he's ever seen those cogs do---would have---if the work they were doing wasn't trying to deduce _him_. He almost shivered, the probing way the older man's eyes were roving over his, trying to read his thoughts making him feel naked. And not in a fun way. He'd really like to be naked again. Naked with Y/N. The mental image of what they could get up to if Lestrade just left them alone made heat rise to the back of his neck. "I'm not acting odd. The case _is_ dull, even if you think it isn't." He'd stood a little straighter, adding that bored undertone to his voice but Greg had heard it before, knew it was added, and fell for none of it.

"It _is_ interesting and you know it. Why did you tug Y/N away a second ago? Why don't you care about---"

"I do care!" The burning feeling at the back of Sherlock's neck got worse but it wasn't from excited arousal anymore. Now it was from the fact that Greg was essentially stabbing that earlier-mentioned tender nerve with every word he said.

"Then help us solve it."

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. "Okay. Give me the address and we'll follow you in a cab."

...

"We could have told him we were together if you really wanted to, you know." Y/N said, turning to Sherlock as soon as Lestrade had left the apartment. "Dating in secret is fun but not if you end up getting lectured on waking up late, and have to take cases you don't want to."

Sherlock was still nibbling his lip and Y/N reached up, cupping the side of his face with her hand and ran her thumb over his mouth. His lips fell open, the chewed one probably glad to have been freed. Sherlock sighed. "I don't mind the lecturing. People are always telling me to conform to mainstream society. I just didn't like how he said I don't care about the case."

"So you did want to take it?" Y/N clearly seemed confused. Probably because that contradicted with the way Sherlock had waved it off so quickly. And barely even glanced at the photos Greg had brought. And literally said out loud that it was boring.

"Honestly? ...No. I don't care about the case at all. That's what's bothering me." He ran a hand through his still-damp curls. "I used to solve crimes because I wanted that thrill...but now I have a new kind of thrill, a better kind. And I can't help thinking...what if this is how I am now? What if I can't find interest in my job anymore, you know? What if this case is just the beginning?" He began raising a hand to his face as if to nibble on a nail but Y/N kissed the corner of his mouth and the hand fell back to his side. Y/N's lips were better at easing his anxiety than nail-biting ever could be. He turned his head to catch them and she kissed back, slowly, the gesture instantly soothing him.

When Y/N pulled away Sherlock felt better. A bit better, anyway. The corner of his lips tugged into a smile; who knew kissing had so many uses? And that there were so many different types? He was about to consider finding and documenting all of them, then he remembered that that was exactly what had made him worried in the first place.

"I understand why you're worried, but I don't think being in a relationship will actually change as much of your life as you think it will. So far all it's changed is the fact that you don't wake up alone anymore. You finding cases boring isn't a new thing, is it? There's always been cases you didn't care about. Just because this one is dull that doesn't mean your whole job is suddenly boring to you."

She sounded so sure of herself, her argument was so sound and logical, that Sherlock almost believed her.

"But you heard Lestrade. That kind of case is usually the kind I'd be fascinated in; no leads, no suspects, no evidence. What if every case is like that now? I'll have to keep being a detective because there's nothing else I can _do_." He tensed as he realised something and he was sure Y/N could feel it where she was now holding his waist. He was grateful for her grip; it was grounding, the only thing preventing him from becoming properly sucked into a spiral of anxiety. "What if...what if I can't even _solve_ crimes now that I'm so...distracted?"

Y/N laughed, the sound splitting the worry-filled air and Sherlock frowned down at her.

"What's so funny?"

"You." She shook her head, trying to get her giggles under control. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

Sherlock clearly couldn't find the humour of the situation. "Yes. It should bother you too, I might be out of work---"

This only made Y/N laugh harder. "You're not going to be out of work, you idiot." She noted his expression and pulled him down into a hug. He accepted it, confused. "You can still deduce just fine, you can still solve crimes better than pretty much anyone in England, and for Christ's sake, you're not 'distracted' or however you put it." Y/N broke the hug and gave Sherlock a friendly shove.

He just blinked at her. "I'm not?"

"No, you're not. You're just in love, and that's okay. It won't get in the way of anything important. If anything, it will be a benefit rather than a hindrance. We build bonds with other people not to hold us back but to save us if we fall, or help us climb higher. You had sex for the first time last night, it's only natural that that's all you can think about for a day or two. Honestly, Sherlock, you're fine." Y/N waited patiently while he processed this information.

It took a little while but then he smiled. "You think?"

"I _know_." She kissed him again, running her fingers through his hair, breaking the kiss when he moaned. "No, come on. You said we'd follow Lestrade in a cab; he's probably wondering where we are." As Y/N started to move away to get ready to leave, Sherlock gently took her wrist. 

His pale eyes, creased with a smirk, slid over her and Y/N gazed inquisitively back.

"What?"

"I just realised that you're right.

"About?"

Coyly, in that tone he'd tried and very much liked when they'd been in bed just half an hour ago: "My power to deduce. You're right, I haven't it."

"No?"

"Nope," popping the 'p'. "Your heart rate, your pupils, your flushed cheeks..." His smirk widened to a grin. "I deduce that you're wishing I hadn't agreed to that case. Am I right?" Before she could answer, Sherlock slipped into his coat in one smooth motion. "This is payback. For teasing me earlier." He gave her a wicked grin that he knew made her weak in the knees. "Now get your coat on, it's cold out there and there's a crime that needs solving." 

...

When Sherlock got out of the cab he had to remind himself not to hold Y/N's hand.

He'd kissed her for most of the car ride, just pressing his lips to any part of her skin that was exposed and within reach, avoiding her lips because he knew once he kissed those he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd either get the cabby to turn the car around and take them straight back home, or he'd tumble out of the car once they arrived at the crime scene, hair sticking up, cheeks red, lips swollen, and eyes so dazed he'd be taken in for a drugs test.

Resisting kissing Y/N proved to be much more difficult than Sherlock remembered. How had he gone all that time before they were dating without giving in, without weakening and just begging Y/N to touch him? It didn't help that she was touching him too, her fingers splayed against his chest. They caused prickles of sensation to burst from the spot, fanning out from the place of contact like those writing beams of light inside plasma globes. Sherlock had directed her hand there as an alternative to where she'd actually wanted to put it; submerged in his hair, which he knew would remove all sensible thought he possessed in an instant.

Sherlock knew of The White Hotel, vaguely, and he'd expected it to be small since Greg had mentioned the highest floor it had was the forth. However, he was not quite prepared for how small it actually _was_. Nestled between two towering office buildings, The White Hotel looked like a fat little pocket dictionary stuffed between two ageing Atlases Of The World. Everything about it was white, not cream or sun-stained yellow, but white---a bold choice in smog-choked central London---like it had been given a fresh coat of paint as soon as it got dirty, rather than a wash.

Lestrade had been waiting for Y/N and Sherlock when they arrived, leaning against a lamppost, his black wool coat, silver hair, and bored expression making him look like a character out of a fifties spy movie. Sherlock couldn't decide what side of the law his fifties-movie-character would be on, it could probably go either way. If you imagine a fedora tilted low over his eyes he'd be an undercover detective waiting for his mark to make a drop-off. If you imagined a briefcase swinging from one of his leather-gloved hands he'd _be_ the mark. His shoulders slackened when he saw Y/N and Sherlock approaching, giving them a where-have-you-been roll of his eyes. "You said you'd be behind me!"

Sherlock shrugged, glad for the brittle breeze that was rapidly cooling down his flushed cheeks. "We _were_ behind you."

"I imagined you'd be _right_ behind me."

"Evidently, you don't have a very vivid imagination."

This made Lestrade huff moodily, and Y/N gave Sherlock's side a warning nudge with her elbow meaning _'hey'_ , but she was holding in a smile and he knew it, so he nudged her back, meaning ' _hypocrite'._ She'd been about to give him a playful shove into a nearby puddle when Greg turned to them, probably to say something related to the case, but caught the tail end of their stifled laughter so said instead with furrowed brows:

"What is going on with you two?"

Sherlock brushed imaginary dirt from his coat and straightened his scarf, clearing his throat a little. "Nothing." The fact that that was a lie caused a fluttering sensation in his chest. Nothing used to be going on between him and Y/N. _Nothing_. Not now, though. Now there was _something_. He attempted to settle his features into their usual neutral, bordering on mildly-disinterested, expression but it was like trying to wear a mask that didn't quite fit anymore. His lips kept wanting to widen into a grin, which pushed his glower away, his sparkling eyes shining through his bored scowl. He kept them on Lestrade because he knew if he glanced at Y/N even for a second he'd start giggling again. Start giggling, or break into some childish game which would involve him threatening to pick her up and dump her in that fountain over there.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Hm. Well whatever it is, don't bring it in here. This is a _very_ high-class hotel, so best behaviour."

"I'm always on my best behaviour," Sherlock said indignantly, and Greg muttered: 

"Then God help me".

...

The door to The White Hotel was as white as the exterior, as, it turned out, was the _in_ terior. At first, glance, Sherlock assumed there was no furniture in the cramped little foyer, just several strange, spindly, amorphous statues, but then he realised the strange, spindly, amorphous statues, _were_ the furniture, and he had to hold in another giggle. Several things in life did not make sense to Sherlock Holmes, and they were as follows:

\- Putting raisins in cookies rather than chocolate chips

\- Fashion

And

\- Why anyone would want to be in love

(Although it has now occurred to him, with satisfaction, that that last one could be crossed off). 

The point is: every high-class hotel Sherlock had ever solved a case for (for that is the only reason he would ever step anywhere near a high-class hotel) utterly and completely confused him. Why would someone want a chair shaped like a litter box on stilts? Or a table like a massive, bent butter knife? He could appreciate the fact that some saw it as...art? He wouldn't mind super-stylish-pique-of-fashion furniture if it at least served its purpose, but it didn't. It never does. It just looks strange, and if you touch it people tend to either go white, tell you the price, and ask you not to, or a smug smile comes over their face as they tell you the price, then lecture you on its origin for twenty-five minutes as if you're supposed to be impressed.

He wondered what kind of person the forty-something woman hurrying towards them would be. She's probably the former, if her appearance was anything to go on, Sherlock thought as his pale eyes slid over her creaseless suit, bleached bob cut, and perfectly manicured nails. Her gaze was fixed on Lestrade, completely bypassing Y/N and Sherlock as if they were simply not part of her own little personal reality. She'd probably be ignoring Lestrade too, if she hadn't met him before and knew him to be of use to her.

She gave him a stiff smile in welcome, the corners of her lips drawn too far back, showing too many of her even little rounded teeth as if a puppeteer was controlling her face with string and doing rather badly. "Greggory, you've come back. I didn't think you would." Her tone was as neatly clipped as her hair and she ignored Y/N and Sherlock completely, besides occasionally glancing at their feet; her spine as taught as a bowstring as if she was afraid they'd tread mud all over the lovely clean cut pile carpet.

Lestrade laughed light-heartedly, but Sherlock could tell he's doing that thing where he tries no to lose his patience. He can tell because he'd done that very thing to Sherlock earlier. It was nice watching him do it because of someone else for a change. "Miss Levine, I told you we would try our best to---"

"And yet you have no leads, and you left," Miss Levine interrupted curtly, making Greg's shoulders tighten. "There's not a single policeman in this whole building anymore, no one looking for clues or interviewing the staff---"

"We did all we could, Miss Levine, I told you, we took prints from every room that was hit, we took statements from the victims, from every member of staff and all the guests that were around when it happened. There's nothing else we can do for you, so I said I'd bring in my colleague."

"Well, where are they?'

Greg blinked, then metaphorically gathered up the pieces he'd dropped and cleared his throat. "He's here. This is Sherlock Holmes, and Y/F/N Y/L/N." Greg gestured at Sherlock who smiled at her, holding out his hand for her to shake. "He's a private detective. Sherlock, this is Miss Levine, the manager of this hotel."

The hotel manager looked him up and down, not seeming particularly impressed, but took his outstretched hand all the same. She didn't shake, and now that her slender fingers were gripping his, Sherlock didn't think it wise to either; for fear of snapping, dislocating, or crushing something. "You're the private detective?" She asked, one tattooed-on eyebrow arched as she released his hand.

Sherlock slipped it back into his pocket. He felt very aware of his long limbs in this cramped little space, surrounded by expensive nonsensical pieces of furniture-art, and thought it best to tuck himself towards his centre as much as possible to minimise the chances of him breaking something. "Yes. And this is my assistant, Y/N."

Miss Levine glanced at her. "And what does she do?"

Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. She's an assistant. That's fairly self-explanatory. "She assists."

Y/N shifted from one foot to the other self consciously as Miss Levine continued to look unimpressed, with Y/N this time, and Sherlock felt a bristle of anger. He'd not been angry for a while now. Just kind of lovesick, and a little bit sad, then after last night, extremely, unfathomably happy. But someone making Y/N uncomfortable? That made his previously good-natured smile turn into a glare. He wanted to place a comforting hand on her back but was scared to move his arm in case he elbowed something that would cost more than his rent to replace.

Blind to Sherlock's quickly dwindling estimation of her (not that it was very high to begin with), Miss Levine regarded his comfortable old coat, the slight tear in his faded scarf, the first few buttons of his shirt left undone lazily. "You don't look like a private detective."

Trying to sound amused, Sherlock feigned surprise. "What do private detectives look like?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

Cooly: "Then, as far as you're aware, I might look exactly like one."

A slight pink rose to Miss Levine's hollow cheeks, clearly not used to people---especially people that wore scarves with holes in them---addressing her in this way. Luckily, she must think scolding him for it as undignified as showing she'd been nettled by it in the first place, because she hurriedly changed the subject: "Follow me, I'll take you to the rooms that were---"

"Actually," Sherlock sliced through her order, making a muscle in her jaw feather, "I'd rather you take me to the surveillance room."

Lestrade's brows were furrowed again. "Why? I already told you the tapes are clean. Spotless, like, not even a guest goes up or down that corridor all night."

"That's why I want to see them." Sherlock would usually be revelling in his audience's confusion, eager to explain his methods and watch their reactions, however, today none of that even occurred to him. All that was on his mind at present was finishing this case as soon as possible so he and Y/N could get back to 221B, back to what they'd been doing, and away from this snobby woman and her collection of ugly furniture.

...

The White Hotel wasn't as small as it appeared, Sherlock realised as Miss Levine led the way to the surveillance room, striding ahead down the winding corridors unnaturally fast for someone in heels. The building was narrow but long, the group having to keep the back of the hotel manager's head in sight so as not to get lost. It was somewhat disconcerting how her helmet of hair, cut perfectly perpendicular to the angle of her shoulders, remained completely still as she moved. As if it was a single entity rather than billions of strands.

The surveillance room was located in the basement and turned out to be a cupboard rather than a room, about the same size as the loo in 221B. Just as there was just enough space for a toilet, sink cabinet, shower and a bath in 221B's loo, there was just enough space for a desk, filing cabinets, counter, and two chairs in The White Hotel's surveillance room. That's about it, really. Everything inside, like the rest of the hotel, was spotless.

Mrs Levine booted up the computer, several monitors mounted to the wall above the desk already showing low-quality live streams of various hallways.

Sherlock's gaze roved around the cramped space, as he asked, "Who has access to this footage?"

"Only the security man and myself."

"And where is he now? He's been away so long the computer wasn't even on. Thirty rooms and only one person watching surveillance?"

The computer had come to life by now, and Miss Levine's bony fingers set about logging on. "He's at home. His shift ended. We did have two employees on surveillance but one left our employment several weeks ago. We're still interviewing for a replacement. The thief must have known we were vulnerable."

Sherlock merely hummed in dismissal, taking a seat before the computer once Levine had stepped back to let him do so, a folder open on the screen showing rows and rows of security tape files.

"These are all for the fourth floor."

Taking off his coat: "Yes, I can see that. You can leave now. Y/N and I will come find you when we're done." If he had been facing the other way he would have seen Miss Levine's mouth open and close several times. 

"Do you not want---?"

"Nope," popping the 'P', always finding a small amount of pleasure in telling a control-freak to sod off. "Y/N, could you close that door, please? Thank you."

...

Sherlock clicked on the file at the top of the list and a grainy black and white video of a hallway started playing. He hit the forward button several times, but the only clue that it was being played at three times its usual speed was the timer in the bottom left corner ticking away so fast the pixels could hardly keep up, the number just a white blur. Sherlock was watching the screen intently, eyes flicking around the image of an empty hallway with determined intensity.

Y/N came up behind him, her lips tugging up at the corners. "You seem to be fairly swept up by the case now. Was I right? That you're still interested even though you're 'distracted'?" She put emphasis on that last bit, teasing him, and he frowned.

"No. I'm not interested in the case, I just want to get it over with so we can go home." He'd been trying not to think about that. About how he still didn't care about this, about any of it. He'd been waiting for it to kick in, for that spark to come back to life but it hasn't yet, and he'd been trying to ignore the knot of anxiety that caused, shoving it to the back of his mind every time it pushed its way into his brain.

"Oh."

The first clip ended and he selected the second, speeding it up again. A few seconds passed of him just staring at the empty hallway, then he felt Y/N's hands gently come to rest on his shoulders. They instantly relaxed, soothed by her touch, and let his spine slacken enough for his body to lean against the backrest of the chair.

"Well, as I said, this is just one case. And you're not doing something particularly exciting right now."

Sherlock didn't answer. He appreciated her attempts at comfort, and they were kind of working. She did have a point; he shouldn't expect his blood to run thick with adrenaline from watching surveillance tapes.

Y/N's hands had started to gently rub through his jacket and Sherlock hummed gratefully. He didn't know if she was doing it to make him feel good, or because her hands were bored. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that it was nice. His affection-starved skin soaked up the gentle pressure as she ran her thumbs along that long stretch of muscle connecting his neck and shoulders, his hum turning into a shaky moan.

"Is this distracting you?" She asked worriedly, her movements ceasing, and Sherlock shook his head quickly.

"No, it's nice."

"Okay, good." She continued, much to Sherlock's delight. The task he was so mind-numbingly easy it was actually useful to have Y/N touching him, keeping his mind in the real world rather than wandering away into a daydream. "Hey...now that we're alone," she said quietly, "I never got to ask you this morning if you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed what?"

"Last night. I mean, I know afterwards we talked for a bit but you were all happy and sleepy then."

He was quickly becoming happy and sleepy now, his eyes desperately wanting to slide closed. Y/N extended the massage to the base of Sherlock's ears and could see his smile, almost going slack with pleasure, reflecting off the computer screen.

"You've had time to think about it now. I guess what I want to know is...did you like it? Sex. Kissing. Sleeping in the same bed as someone else. Being that close to another person. I just want to make sure you're enjoying it all; being in a relationship."

Sherlock would have laughed, if he wasn't currently feeling so mellow he could melt into a puddle on the floor. "Of course I did. _Am._ Can't you tell?" Dragging his mind away from Y/N's massage to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing---for a second---he selected the next video once the one he'd been watching came to an end. This one was just the same as the last; an empty corridor. He relaxed again. 

Y/N chuckled. "Yeah. I just wanted to be certain. Make sure you tell me if you _do_ want me to stop doing something." She lowered her voice and her head, giving his neck a quick kiss. "Or _do_ something."

Sherlock's hand stilled on the house, as Y/N ran her hands up and into his hair at the sides of his head. He couldn't help letting his head tip back now, resting it against Y/N's tummy as she stood behind him, letting his eyelids slip shut. If he'd kept them open he would have seen Y/N staring down at him lovingly, the corner of her mouth tugged up into a smirk.

"Is _this_ distracting you?" She teased, not being able to stop staring at the soft pink curve of his full lower lip as his jaw fell open enough to let out a small moan.

"...A-a bit."

"Do you want me to stop?" One of Sherlock's curls got tangled with her fingers, but instead of wince in pain like she thought he would when she pulled it free, he bit back a groan. Her smile widened.

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

Y/N, much to the joy of every single one of Sherlock's inexperienced nerve cells, tipped her head down to brush his lips with hers, hot humid breath tickling like a feather being stroked too-lightly over his skin. It filled his core with helpless agitation as he realised she was messing with him again, holding back what he so desperately craved behind a wicked smirk. He made a pitiful noise, his neck straining to try to reach what he wanted and failing, getting a smug giggle.

Sherlock would be angry about the sheer amount of power she holds had he not been, in some strange thrill-of-the-chase kind of way, enjoying what she was doing. Physical pleasure seemed to be a lot about suspense, he'd noted. Waiting for bursts of sensation, for waves of satisfaction, winding your partner's body tighter and tighter with need before heeding it's wishes, releasing that built-up energy in one explosive fireworks display of firing synapses. The more built up energy, the larger and more powerful the wave of answering ecstasy. Sherlock's body, although still so innocent, clearly wants those types of release more than it's ever wanted the satisfaction of solving a case, of catching any criminal. Just this one kiss, these mere few seconds of staring pleadingly up into his girlfriend's eyes while she strategically withholds one of the best kind of satisfaction he'd ever known evokes a sense of expectation no career can compete with.

He can't stand it anymore and takes the back of Y/N's head with the hand he'd previously had on the computer mouse, pushing Y/N's face close enough to his own to claim her lips. She was still smiling, he could feel it as she kissed him, the rocky edge of her teeth, the soft exhalation of air as she laughed at his neediness.

'I'll show her,' Sherlock wanted to be able to think. He wanted to sweep her off her feet, take back some of the control she'd easily plucked from him like sweets from a baby. Not for the sake of his pride---because Lord knows that escaped along with the pitiful begging sound he'd made a second ago---but because he wants to please her. He wants to make Y/N make that pitiful sound, to want him as much as he wants her (and God, he wants her. Every second). She makes his knees feel like cooked spaghetti, his body quiver with need simply by standing within a foot of him, his head to drain of blood so rapidly he momentarily forgets to inhale---and it's wonderful. He wants her to feel it too, he wants to stand up right now and give her a kiss so wrought with confidence and male sexuality that she---

But he couldn't because he doesn't know how. Not really. 'Not yet, anyway.' And he knows that if he tried, all it would take would be a flick of Y/N's tongue along his lip, the tip of one of her nails lightly, accidentally, brushing his scalp, to tug the metaphorical rug out from under his feet again.

Y/N's still leaning over Sherlock, their kiss upside down and yet, curiously, Sherlock thought, no less pleasing. If he did document the many ways that Y/N caresses him, as he'd considered earlier, he'd definitely take note of this one. She sort of had his bottom lip and he had her top one, the unfamiliar position causing their movements to be slightly sloppy and mismatched. Not in an uncoordinated way, but in a way that meant their mouths would become separated enough every now and again and Sherlock's happy little moans to break free, his jaw pulled open by the stretch of his lithe, pale neck.

It was around the time that Sherlock made a hungry groan (brought on by Y/N pushing the kiss deeper) that he felt vaguely aware of something pulling his shirt. Embarrassingly slowly compared to his usual bullet trains of thought, he realised it was Y/N's hand trying to show she'd like him to stand up.

With the best of his ability, Sherlock broke the kiss enough to rise to his full height and let Y/N guide him to where she wanted him. He hoped that with this improved position Y/N would have better access to his mouth, which he really wanted her to continue her exploration of.

She nudged him backwards until he bumped into the hard edge of the desk, but Y/N didn't stop nudging and he realised, with a new kind of heat rising to his cheeks, that she wanted him to sit on it.

"We can't make out on the desk!" He gasped as best he could, not believing what he was saying for a second.

"Why not?" The moon-coloured light from the forgotten computer screen cast a soft glow over the side of Y/N's face, reflecting off of the soft pink curve of her lips, shiny from Sherlock's kisses. If he leaned down again to take them he'd be able to taste himself. The thought was very appealing.

"We're in public. What if someone comes in?" His voice had caught on that last word, Y/N having pushed herself up onto her toes to reach that place he liked on his neck, pressing one, fleeting kiss there. Sherlock whimpered.

Pathetic.

All sensible thought had left him so when Y/N gave him another little push, urging him to sit on the desk he did, pulling her eagerly between his legs. His emotions were rapidly outrunning his self discipline, urging her closer, hands on her hips and fingers kind of digging in desperately, mouth falling open so he could gulp in oxygen when she started biting at that spot. He could feel the temperature of his blood rising with every passing second, every tug at his hair, his shirt, every probing flick of Y/N's tongue. He exhaled thickly with a small moan, mouth falling open against Y/N's as the last of his composure shattered into a million little pieces.

"Y/N."

"Relax, I've locked the door."

He practically fell to pieces in her arms.

...

"God," Sherlock panted as Y/N pressed her lips to his forehead, between his eyes, which he let slide closed, the gesture simple and loving and utterly addictive.

She's making a daisy-chain of kisses down the center of his face, catching his chin between her teeth playfully and he let his head fall backwards, feeling it bump into the wall behind him.

As the minutes had passed, Sherlock was finding it more and more difficult to keep his breathing convincingly even. His blood cells were racing beneath his skin to eagerly greet Y/N's touch as her lips roved, sucked, and pressed. The smallest gestures were somehow enough to illicit an involentry, helpless sound of pleasure, which kept inturrupting any kind of rythm his lungs had managed to establish.

It was rather embarrassing.

Embarrassing that it takes so little to turn him on.

Embarrassing that he's grateful for the desk below him because his wet-spaghetti-knees surely would have given out by now.

Embarrassing because he's swooning so much Y/N's chest pressed against his is the only thing preventing him from being a melted puddle on the spotless lino. He's leaning into her, he can't help it, she's not close enough, and, in an attempt to remedy that fact, Sherlock tightens his grip of her waist with his legs.

'Isn't the woman the one that usually winds her legs around her boyfriend's waist?' Sherlock wondered before realising that he absolutely didn't care. In a strange way, it felt nice to be looked after for a change.

Y/N had reached his neck now, the base of it, and mouthed at the little dip there, that hollow between the smooth slash of his collarbones. His breath caught, and he gritted out through a smile: "How are you so good at that?"

Y/N giggled. "All I'm doing is kissing your neck," she'd said it like it was no big deal, which Sherlock knew she'd done on purpose. As if hinting, reminding him of the other more complex things she can do. That this is only the beginning.

Or maybe she hadn't. Maybe his brain had just been looking for an excuse to think about the other things. He chuckled at himself, a deep rumbling of syllables. "I think there's something wrong with me."

"Oh?" Y/N pulled away, only for a second so she could push her nose back up to nudge the side of his face as she bit the lobe of his ear, getting a bitten down moan in response.

"Mm." A pause, while he took in enough air to continue. "I can't stop thinking about your mouth." He realises, with amused that his hands had wandered of their own accord slightly northwards of the swell of Y/N's hips. Shyly: "And...other parts of you."

She didn't seem to mind. She made an amused, pleased humming sound against his skin. It was sweet and arousing and Sherlock's new favourite food. Can a sound be a food? He'd eaten it up like it was one, anyway.

...

"Wait," It had taken every ounce of self control Y/N possessed to push those three little words from her mouth, and even more concentration to form them with her tongue in the first place.

Sherlock felt her hands retract from the coils of his hair and come to settle squarely on either side of his chest. This had been the first touch Y/N had given him in ten minutes that wasn't designed to elicit some kind of moan. Concerned: "What's wrong?"

"I was about to untuck your shirt." She chuckled, the little breath of air brushing Sherlock's lips and he tried to stifle it, catch her again, but she leaned just out of reach.

He frowned. "I would have liked that very much. More kissing, please." This time, when he leaned in, she let him take a kiss, let herself be swept up by it for a few seconds before breaking it once more.

"I shouldn't be distracting you at work, Sherlock," her words were mixed with a disappointed sigh.

"But I want you to distract me at work." He really does. His lips feel slightly raw, but he doesn't care. The rest of his body is aching for close contact, even though he knew heeding it's wishes would be a very irresponsible thing to do. Irresponsible and fun.

Y/N straightened his collar, smoothed his curls with her fingers. She hadn't meant it to, but to Sherlock's touch-hungry nerve cells it had felt lovely and he hummed, tipping his head into her palm; a silent plea for more.

"You're missing all the footage. You know, from the crime you're supposed to be solving."

He wasn't really paying attention. He couldn't stop staring at Y/N's mouth. He wanted to kiss her again. "That doesn't matter, I solved it already."

The way Y/N's features unashamedly arranged themselves into a mixture of awe and surprise would never get old. No matter how many times Sherlock made it happen, that little swell of pride still blossomed in his chest. She thinks he's amazing. "You have?"

He nonchalantly inclined his shoulders, shifting uncomfortably on the hard surface of the desk. He'd been practically burning several seconds ago, boiling, and now he was rapidly cooling off, arousal leaking from him like steam. He was sad to see it go. "Yeah. It was the manager---Ms Levine, or whatever her name is." He nudged his head forwards, drawing constellations with kisses over the small patch of bare skin at Y/N's chest, using one finger to tug the material of her shirt down slightly. As much as he liked being on the receiving end of gentle affection, he'd quickly realised that he thoroughly enjoys giving it too. Not just because he wants Y/N to be impressed with his rapidly accumulating skills, but because taking care of someone has turned out to feel surprisingly rewarding.

"How? You didn't even watch all the tapes."

"I didn't need to," said in between kisses. Y/N's breath caught as he touched on a sensitive spot and he liked it. "I'd pretty much figured it out as soon as I saw the security camera in the lobby."

Voice more wobbly than she would have liked (now she's the one being distracted. Damn Sherlock's addictive cupid's bow): "You're going to need to explain a little more than that."

He sighed, pulled away, and let go of the neck of Y/N's shirt. Trying to get her to continue what they'd been doing a little while ago was clearly a losing battle. He almost laughed to himself, as disappointed as he was, at the situation he was currently in; Sherlock Holmes would rather be kissing that crime solving. Although, in his defence, who wouldn't?

"The security cameras." He stated. "Did you notice the whole hotel is expensive and modern apart form the cameras? Why not replace the old technology?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him and he quickly continued, for once not wanting to sound patronising:

"Because old things are easier to tamper with. And they have been tampered with."

It was obvious to him by now that the heated make-out session was over---at work, anyway. Y/N had said she didn't want to distract him at work, thus, Sherlock decided, all he had to do was wrap things up here then they could go home and do more than making out. Not that the making out wasn't wonderful on it's own, it was, but he'd only done 'more than making out' once (well, several times) and it was already his new favorite activity.

He released Y/N from where his knees had been kind of gripping her hips, and pushed himself off the desk, smoothing out his shirt.

"How do you know?" Y/N's eyes followed him as he combed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to restore order to his appearance.

"The door at the end of the last tape we saw before you started playing with my hair---"

"Sorry about that, by the way."

"Don't apologise, it was nice." His cheekbones coloured and he didn't have to be able to see Y/N's face to know she was smirking at him. Clearing his throat, because he'd let himself recall the hair-stroking and it had not helped him cool off one bit: "Anyway, the door. Didn't you notice anything interesting about it?"

"No. But you did, obviously. You should use your phone as a mirror, by the way."

"Thanks." He did, and bit down a chuckle as he activated the front facing camera. His hair looked like an unmade bed. So that's what he looks like after being kissed by a pretty woman for ten minutes? He had to admit, it wasn't a bad look, all wide pupils and a smile that just wouldn't go away no matter how many times he tried to wipe it off with the back of his hand. "When the tape ended it had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on it---which hadn't been there at the beginning. But no one walked down the hallway to put it there and no one opened the door."

Y/N pieced the rest together herself: "So the footage has been edited? There's some time missing from that recording?"

"Obviously." If only he'd brought hair gel, or hair spray, or hair something with him. Even just a comb---

"That's the perfect time and place to do it, too; the top floor has the least foot traffic because most people's rooms are on the floors below," Y/N mused aloud. "And it would have been that time of night when most people would be downstairs having dinner."

Having figured this all out for himself a while ago, Sherlock just nodded along. 'How does she look so tidy?' He wondered as Y/N fixed a few strands of hair that had ended up on the wrong side of her parting---the only thing that was out of place about her appearance. Although, maybe she just seems tidy to him because he thinks she's perfect. Sherlock would find her pretty even if she'd been dragged across the British countryside backwards.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I asked how you knew it was Ms Levine."

"Because of what she said about the keys."

Y/N still looked blank and he waved a hand, unlocking the door and opening it, a wedge of light cutting the dark little room in two.

"I'll explain when we meet back up with Lestrade."

...

They found Lestrade wearing an expression that consisted entirely of lines. His mouth was a line, his forehead was lined, his eyebrows were two fuzzy lines above his eyes half drawn with drooping eyelids. He looked utterly and absolutely bored, so bored he was sort of melting on the spot, his body sagging in his uniform, the hand holding a mug of what appeared to be black coffee (that wasn't helping at all) threatening to drop it on the floor.

The reason for his obvious lack of interest from absolutely everything around him became apparent when Y/N and Sherlock rounded a corner enough to see what 'everything around him' consisted of. Ms Levine was standing beside him, as motionless and unnaturally thin as the statues flanking the lobby entrance. Well, apart from her lips that were rapidly firing words in the detective inspector's direction. He was saying nothing, just nodding every now and again in a poor attempt at being polite.

He cut her off, though, as soon as he saw Sherlock approach, positively speed-walking over to him and looking genuinely grateful for the interruption. No doubt Ms Levine spent the entire time they'd been together listing the ways in which he'd been doing his job wrong.

"Please tell me you realised I was right when I said the tapes had no leads, so you've spent the last hour searching the hotel for real clues," his tone was pleading but his eyes gave away that he knew they hadn't.

"I could tell you that, but I'd be lying," Sherlock quipped smoothly, then regretted it as the rest of Greg's face turned the same dull colour his eyes had been. Whilst Sherlock had been heatedly kissed by the love of his life, this poor man had to put up with---

"Ah, you're back."

Sherlock felt Y/N bump into his side as she jumped, startled by the hotel manager's silent (what he could only guess had been) teleportation to their little group.

Lestrade ignored her (which he'd become very good at after all the practise he's recently had) and turned back to confront Sherlock with an attitude close to frustration. "So you've just been watching security tapes this whole time? They were useless---"

"No, they weren't, I've solved it." Sherlock turned his pale eyes, that had been molten steel a few minutes ago and were now hardened back into colourless, cold disks, to Ms Levine. "It was you."

Obviously, she was outraged. "Me?!" Her immaculate sheet of hair split in a few places as she did a theatrical double-take. "Why would I rob my own guests?"

"For the money. Isn't that why people usually steal things?" Proving people wrong, winding people up, and watching people try to deny what they assumed no one would ever uncover is fun. But do you know what is more fun? Sex. "Anyway Lestrade, I'm sure you can handle it from here---" Sherlock took Y/N's hand and turned to leave.

"Wait, wait, wait." Lestrade hurried after the detective, a firm hand catching his arm and swiftly putting an end to his attempted escape.

A hot flush freckled Sherlock's cheekbones as he realised Greg had probably noticed his blatant (and frankly accidental) public display of affection towards Y/N, who, as far as Lestrade knew, was merely his friend and flatmate. Now he'd have to explain---

"You can't just accuse someone of theft and then leave."

"But I just did." Discreetly letting go of Y/N's palm, Sherlock turned back to Greg, who was almost glaring up at him. He had to stuff a giggle back down into his chest at the sight of him; a full head shorter, mouth turned down at the corners in a grumpy frown. He reminded Sherlock of one of those bobble-head bulldogs some people have staring out the rear window of their car. "Or at least, I'm trying to."

As funny as Greg's expression was, it didn't change the fact that Sherlock wanted to go home. He needed to go home, because Lestrade's comment about them spending the past sixty minutes in the surveillance room had reminded him of what they'd been doing in the surveillance room. Of what they'd almost done. It made the back of his neck heat up so much he had to fight off the urge to scratch it. He wanted to neatly tie off this conversation. Irritation creeping into his tone because he was basically being held captive:

"I'm not accusing her, I know she did it."

"My name isn't 'She'---"

She was once again ignored.

Sherlock explained the tapes, how they'd been edited, a significant chunk of time having suddenly disappeared. He explained the door, and the 'Do Not Disturb' sign (which he wished he could hang on his person and hope people got the message, because somehow his general demeanor never seemed to be enough on it's own). He explained, as promised, how only Ms Levine and the security guy had keys to the rooms and the surveillance tapes. He'd pumped out the words like his mouth was a machine designed to mass-produce them, and took a few breaths before adding:

"Plus, as manager, Levine can flick through the guest books, find out who's doing what---like who was in the restaurants, and not in their room---without anyone getting suspicious. She's thorough, a control freak, that's her thing, so no one thought this behaviour was odd. All she had to do was wait until the guests went down for evening drinks, hit the rooms, wipe the tapes and go about her usual business."

Ms Levine was a pale person in general---her being cold-blooded, and all---but as Sherlock's words piled in front of her like a hand of cards she stood no chance of beating, she turned the same sort of colour as milk. When he'd finished, Lestrade and Y/N nodding as everything started to make sense, Levine sputtered, somewhat more desperately than she'd intended:

"But you said it yourself! It's not just me who has access to the footage and room keys, there's also Mr Arnold---"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Levine, who seemed suddenly very small, despite being eye-level with him and wearing high heels. "The man you said is at home right now so couldn't show us around? The man who was also conveniently absent when my guys interviewed the rest of the staff a few days ago? "

She bristled. "He works the night shift, if you wanted to talk to him you should have come back at night. If you people did your job properly you'd have people stationed here twenty-four-seven in case the thief comes back---"

"We all know that's not going to happen," Sherlock muttered, getting a glare that he didn't even notice.

"Anyway, what I was saying is: Mr Arnold is our head of security. Well, the only person working on security; we're a small hotel, prestigious; things like this don't usually happen so we've never felt a need for more than one person to keep an eye on the security cameras." She huffed a little laugh but it came out as more of a chest cough. "I mean, how many people does it take to sit in a room and stare at TV screens?"

"Evidentally more than one," Lestrade sighed rather than said.

"But we didn't used to need more than one. We never had these sorts of incidents back when Mr Baker---"

Sherlock clarified: "Who left around the time the robberies started, right?"

"Yes." Two patches of colour had returned to Levine's cheekbones, maybe at being interrupted, but they didn't make her look more like her usual porcelain-doll self. Instead, they had the effect of somehow highlighting how ghostly white the rest of her actually was, the red splotches like makeup put on too thickly by a child. "So we hired Mr Arnold. He also had access to the keys. He could have given them to someone, or someone stole them from him and then---"

That's how you can tell someone is guilty. They always manage to come up with more interesting theories than what actually happened. 

Any credibility she'd once held in her bony little manicured hand had evaporated, and, judging by the way her speech seems to be tumbling from her mouth in an uncontrollable flow of excuses, she knows that. It's like she's trying to keep a fire going, desperatly shovelling fuel onto it but that's stifling the flame rather than making it grow. 

Y/N had been watching the conversation as if it was some kind of word snowball fight. Sherlock and Lestrade would pat together a question, a damning statement, and hurl it at the hotel manager who'd stumble under its impact, her spindly legs threatening to give way any second. "What does he look like, this Mr Arnold?" Y/N threw her own word snowball and it hit Ms Levine squarely on the nose.

She blinked a few times. "What?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, giving Y/N a proud smirk. "That's a good question, Y/N." Confronting Levine, now: "What does he look like?"

Ms Levine gave a stuttering, childish attempt at a description, so poor that Sherlock felt it was almost sad to see a woman usually so articulate and phlegmatic reduced to...well, this. So he put her out of her misery:

"It doesn't really matter because he doesn't exist."

"What?" That had been Greg, watching Sherlock as if he was some kind of magician who'd just performed a rather impressive magic trick (although Sherlock's hands were actually resting nonchalantly in his spacious coat pockets).

"The new head of security, the so-called Mr Arnold, Levine hired to replace the one that left---and I can't stress this enough---when the robberies started doesn't exist. She fired the old security guy and replaced him with a fictional one. I spent an hour in that surveillance room and couldn't find a single trace that any human had spent more than five minutes in it during the past few weeks, let alone sat every day keeping the hotel under watchful eyes. The chair's lumbar support was even adjusted to be more suitable for a woman's stature; almost as if a woman had been using the computers that house the security footage. Unless Mr Arnold is just be very short man; over five inches below average height. He must be about..." A smile curled his lips which would have made even Greg's heart flop over if he was currently in Ms Levine's shoes. "Well, your exact height, Ms Levine."

Somehow, despite her career and life as she knows it hanging by a thread, Levine managed to harden her features into an enraged glower. "I'll have you know, Mr Arnold is just a very tidy man. And as for the chair, that isn't proof. It came like that when we bought it, maybe he just doesn't know how to change it."

The level of disbelief in Sherlock's voice when he metaphorically knocked Levine off her high horse was unfathomable: "You expect us to believe you hired a man who isn't intelligent enough to work a desk chair, to protect your entire five-star hotel? And I doubt any man is so clean he doesn't leave fingerprints, hair samples, or even litter in the bin. Or is he fingerless, hairless, and desperately thin from not eating a morsel during his ten-hour shifts?"

This got no reaction apart from a hoity-toity folding of her tooth-pick arms and a flick of her immaculate hair, so Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade. "The staff have been lying to you as well about this," air quoted, "Mr Arnold. No doubt they were offered some of the money reaped from selling the stolen jewellery in exchange for their silence. Surely you can take it from here?"

Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other, taking a sip of his coffee as if he wished it was whiskey. Through a grimace of disappointment or at the temperature, or both: "I mean, yeah. You're saying she waited until the coast was clear then snuck into the rooms herself. But we don't have any actual substantial evidence---"

"Her fingerprints are all over the computer and the doors and---"

"Yes, but it's her hotel so that doesn't strike anyone as strange." He must have noticed Sherlock's pained expression because he added, "But fine. You can go. You did solve it, after all, and that's all I really wanted you to---"

He never finished that sentence because suddenly he was alone. Y/N and Sherlock had disappeared like a bat out of Hell, Sherlock's coat flapping about his heels only making that simile more apt. Greg could have sworn one of his hands had been grasping Y/N's tightly as they disolved into the welcoming freedom of the London streets. 

He'd look into that later, though. 

For now, there was the small matter of Ms Levine to deal with. She can run surprisingly fast for someone who didn't look as though they'd consumed a single calroy since 1999. 

...

As soon as he and Y/N were squished up side by side in the back of a cab, Sherlock tugged the smudged acrylic partition closed between them and the driver, urging Y/N in for a kiss. It wasn't a long kiss, or a particularly deep kiss. Just enough to answer the longing for it he'd had since the surveillance room, just enough to stave off that tugging sensation in his stomach until they reached the privacy of their own home.

Home. What do couples even do when they're home alone in the evening? Whatever they liked, he guessed. He'd thought about that before. Guiltily imagining what it would be like to cuddle on the sofa while they watched one of those TV shows Y/N likes. Her coming up behind him while he's making dinner and push him up against the fridge for a kiss, the food discarded and forgotten about. Sharing a bath, or a shower, even just being in the same room as each other while they brush their teeth before bed, that new level of intimacy---but now those things don't have to just be thoughts anymore. They might actually happen.

That realisation swamped Sherlock's mind in a pleasing tsunami of dopamine.

He dragged himself away from Y/N's lips, and she let him, her eyes opening to gaze up at his face curiously. She knew he was going to say something important. How did she know? How can she pick up on the subtle changes in his moods and feelings?

'Because she loves me.'

Sherlock smiled. "Remember how earlier I was a bit concerned about how a relationship would affect my work?"

"'A bit'? You practically nibbled off your own lip, and went on about how you didn't think you could deduce things anymore."

"Shush. My point is, I don't think I am anymore. I mean, the case was fundamentally boring, but not because I was distracted. In fact, having you distract me was sort of...what made it not boring."

Y/N raised an eyebrow teasingly. "'Sort of'?"

"More than sort of. Making out in that sorry excuse of a surveillance room was the only thing that made me want to stay. It was...exciting, pretending to be working when actually---"

"That was very unprofessional of us, I must admit."

Sherlock could see the small indent in Y/N's cheek where she was chewing at the inside. "Who cares? That whole thing was just a bunch of rich people squabbling over shiny rocks."

"Yeah, but you solved it, and yet it was a good ten minutes before we---"

Waving a hand nonchalantly, "It's not like there was a deadline."

"I know, I know." Y/N sighed. "I am glad you're not worried about being unable to deduce things---"

"My livelihood and reputation," he amended, curtly.

"---I guess I just feel guilty about leaving Lestrade with that weird woman for so long."

"To be fair, it was you who started it."

"And it was you who let me," the tone was accusatory but laced with that familiar teasing note Sherlock had grown so bafflingly fond of, and suddenly there are two hands on top of his left knee. His and Y/N's, her fingers gently lacing into the spaces between his own. It's nice. "But I'm glad you did. I found it fun too."

They sat in contented silence for a little while, watching the world slide by their windows. The sun had managed to push through the silver-plated clouds, throwing a few beams of light down onto the pavement and lighting up the faces of buildings. Sherlock was thinking about the fact that he was sitting in a taxi, holding hands with someone he loved very much. Y/N was thinking about the same thing, but then a jewellers caught her eye and she asked:

"I wonder if Levine will confess and give the things she stole back? Or if she's already sold them."

Sherlock shrugged. He was still wearing his coat. Y/N was sitting right up against his side (despite the third seat being free) and he wished he'd taken the coat off so he could be a bit closer to her. The thought made him laugh at himself, at what he'd become. Or, rather, who he'd been this whole time, but hadn't known. "That's Greg's problem now, we did our bit."

"You did your bit."

With a shake of his head. "You assisted. But fine. What I was going to say is that, if anything, I think I actually did 'my bit' better than usual, just so we could get home faster." He'd expected Y/N to chuckle, or give his arm a playful shove, but instead, she let out a triumphant 'Ha!' and said:

"Wait, so you do know his name!"

"What?"

"I just realised you said 'Greg'."

"I have a mental map of every street in London, Y/N, I think I can remember a four-letter word."

"Then why do you always pretend you've forgotten?" She is chuckling now, fondly, and it felt just as good as solving the case earlier. What an achievement; to make someone laugh.

"Years ago, I got his name wrong the second time I met him and it just sort of became an ongoing joke."

Y/N's still holding his hand and gives it a little squeeze as if scolding him. Although she wasn't. Sherlock felt a smile playing on his lips because he knew she wouldn't give him away, even if she said: "He doesn't seem to find it funny."

"An ongoing joke for me. Although I am running out of names that begin with 'G', I've had to start reusing some. I wonder if he notices?"

"I think he's under the impression you genuinely don't know it. Although, if you started calling him Guillermo or Giancarlo he'd probably realise you're messing with him, so be careful."

"I'm always careful."

Y/N kissed him again, because she wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, and his eyelids slid shut as if she'd touched a button. Sherlock turned to face her a little more as her hand (the one not softly gripping the back of his own) found his jawline.

I'd like to say he was thinking about something romantic, now. Something poetic like about how he was happier than he'd been in a long time, or how Y/N's kiss made him feel like he finally belonged, like he deserved love and affection as much as everybody else.

But he wasn't. All he was thinking was:

Y/N.

"Y/N," is what he gasped helplessly as she used her thumb at his chin to nudge open his jaw.

Y/N is all he knew when he felt her lips curve into a grin at the grateful moan that pushed past his lips with every tug at his hair.

When they broke the kiss (because Sherlock still gets breathless so incredibly easily, and she was afraid he'd suffocate if left to his own devices) Y/N said: "The White Hotel, or whatever it was called, was a bit too...snobbish, for my taste. But seeing the restaurant did remind me that I haven't actually asked you on a date yet."

The lightest shade of pink touched Sherlock's cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"So, Sherlock, would you like to go to dinner with me?"


End file.
